


Le Parole Lontane

by sleazyjanet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 04:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20522141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleazyjanet/pseuds/sleazyjanet
Summary: Aziraphale is a tattoo artist and he finds himself getting flowers from a secret admirer that appears to have come to his tattoo parlor already.Unluckily, he's allergic to flowers.





	Le Parole Lontane

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO I did it! This one is the shortest but I wasn't feeling too well today, what with me having a cold and not feeling inspired at all by the prompt. But I did it!! day four of the #gomensficweek2019 DONE! can't believe i'm at 4/7 already!
> 
> shoutout to the msfc ofc
> 
> signed, 
> 
> a rat

It's been a busy week for Aziraphale at the Fallen Art Parlor and he's not really been paying attention to whom he's been doing the tattoos to. Some people have caught his eye, it's true. The messy, black haired near _demon_ with pimples everywhere who asked for a fly on the back of their neck surely caught his eye. Even that purple-eyed tall man who asked for  _ You can't have war without War  _ caught his eye.

But no one more than the dark haired man with hazel eyes so clear they seemed golden who asked for a rather edgy serpent shaped tattoo under his right ear, who came in just the other day, whose face seemed ever so familiar, but he couldn't pinpoint how.

Still, he's too professional and too shy to ask for his number, and more so too preoccupied with his work to even remember anything afterwards.

There are at least four people a day asking for his services, praising his skill and begging him to squeeze them in. He's rather fast, though never fast enough to truly please enough people. He enjoys it, however, the praise and the constant coming-in of people, the amount of money he earns.

It does, after all, allow him to go to fancy restaurants in his free hours, and dress nicely, and pay for his apartment and anything he might desire.

It's nice, and if sometimes he gets more praise than anticipated, he only relishes in it. What's a man to do, anyway, if a bouquet of roses lands on his doorstep, no note attached but the name of a flower shop that sells said flowers? 

He lets it slide, with a sneeze or two. With a flush he doesn't allow himself to show to his partner, Tracy, he takes the flowers home and dotes on them as well as someone with a slight allergy to them can. And if his house fills with a smell he can barely feel through his tapped nose and his watery eyes, he ignores it.

Luckily, it doesn't interrupt his work. There are no flowers at his tattoo parlor, and Tracy respects it as it is, bringing only faux ones to decorate her own tiny office. His clients don't question it either. He can only remember one questioning him about it, now that he thinks of it.

The dark haired, golden eyed man.

Aziraphale sighs, a small smile curling up on his lips at the memory of the man and his high cheekbones, his thin lip, his messy hair. Tracy shakes him out of his daze a second after when she reminds him of an appointment in five minutes. 

_ It's been a week, Aziraphale, get a grip! _

Resolutely, he gets everything ready and tries to forget the handsome middle aged man. 

_ How can a man's eyes be so golden, though? They seemed cat-like, almost. _

But the sight of a new client, a petite bespectacled eyed woman with brown hair that asks for golden book on her left hip, then proceeds to tell him her entire life-story, start to finish, not sparing even one detail, allows him a distraction. 

"Prophecies are fake, I know," she sighs, "no one can see into the future. But these, being relatively vague and being basically advices rather than actual predictions always come true, I'm telling you!" Her life story has been, apparently, leading to this.To her explaining to him how true and accurate are the prophecies her (many times) great grandma has written down in her book.

Strictly speaking, though it'd be unprofessional for him to get truly involved, Aziraphale finds it exquisitely fascinating. He intends to investigate further, if time allows it. After all, despite having resolved to being a tattoo artist, he is a book owner at heart. All his greatest memories involve books and a book has never, really, brought him anything but goodness, he reckons. 

Which is why, though he only nods and hums to the young woman, he immediately finds him drawn to the idea of a book that can predict the future.

"Am I in this book?" he asks jokingly, while adding the final touches to the tattoo, the golden ink being always harder to show than a black one and therefore being a feat to work with.

He doesn't really expect the young woman —  _ Anathema _ is her name — to reply, but she does. Eyeing him solemnly, not a trace of pain in her eyes, she nods. "You're there plenty of times, Mr. Fell. It calls you fallen angel, mind you, but I'm proud to admit I've figured out it's you."

_ Ah. _ Yes, that's a rather interesting way to call it. Fallen angel, of course, isn't a wrong way to speak of him. He was an angel, once, in college. Part of a group of young catholics who deemed themselves good enough to be  _ angels _ .

_ But I fell _ , he thinks grimly, remembering clear as day the night he had, misunderstanding the situation, kissed Phanuel on the lips.  _ A mistake, really, but they called a fallen angel afterwards and kicked me out. _

"Your research skills are astounding," he chokes, tracing the last of lines and letting himself breathe. "But I'm afraid I don't know why I would be called such a thing," he lies and it's clear from the way she glares at him he hasn't convinced her.

Afterwards, when all is paid and done, he sits down at his desk and scrolls through Google in search of the book, but it's for nothing. Though there are mentions of it, people muttering opinions through hidden doors, all unaware of what's truly inside it.

His mind is a whirlwind. Through small spectacles he deems  _ nifty _ he tries to read everything before his next appointment.

"Ahem, Aziraphale," Tracy calls for him and he nearly jumps. 

"Oh,dear, is it time already?" He looks down at his wristwatch and frowns. It's not time yet. "What is it?"

Tracy exhales through her nose and hands him  _ another _ bouquet of flowers, this time lilies. Instantly, his eyes water and he tries to cover it with a cough, but he does so too late and the woman runs to him with a concerned look in her eyes.

"Dear, what's wrong?" she asks, and he wheezes in response. "Oh, what a fool, you're _ allergic  _ to flowers."

"Pollen, really. And perhaps other things. Fur being another one," he coughs and she nods.

"I know, I know. I always clean my clothes ten times over before coming in here."

Aziraphale's brows furrow tightly. "I didn't know you had a pet."

"I don't," she admits. "Mr. Shadwell, however, is more often around animals than humans and somehow he gathers some more fur in one go than humanly possible, and I need to clean the house  _ and  _ myself at least two times a day."

That seems to explain it all. Aziraphale is aware of the existence of the prickly man called Mr. Shadwell who calls himself Witchfinder, even in such modern times. 

_ Dreadful, stupid man, really. _

Aziraphale still recalls that time Mr. Shadwell caught him through a window getting a manicure and spent the next ten days calling him just to tell him he shall never allow such a pansy Madame Tracy to come near him, despite the woman being beside him listening in to the conversation.

"Oi! Check the card!"

Surprisingly, there is one today. It's folded in two and the writing upon it is very scribbly, but good looking nonetheless.

_ 'I didn't know what flowers you like, as there weren't any in your tattoo parlor. My second chance, now, eh? Hope you don't mind.' _

It isn't signed, except for the name of the flower shop selling them, which Aziraphale immediately recognizes as being the same.

"A secret admirer, eh?"

Aziraphale rolls his eyes and blesses the new client coming in who just then rings the bell.

For the rest of the day he doesn't allow himself to get distracted again. At around 8pm he finds Tracy already gone and the flowers chucked into the trash bin. It's a right choice, perhaps, but he figures they oughtn't to really stay in his tattoo parlor, if he isn't to get distracted sneezing.

So, he picks up the flowers, sneezes into his coat and without even realizing it he brings them home. He barely closes an eye that night, his throat swelling to the point that at 3 am he finally throws the flowers out the window and gives himself a shot to finally start breathing normally.

A week passes again with him not receiving any flowers and he comes to yearn for them. His only distractions are now his work and his crazed search for the Book the bespectacled young woman spoke of.

Then, at 5pm, they finally arrive. Violets this time, so luminescent and beautiful and so, so sneeze-inducing. The note, this time, offers an apology for not having left a number, and explains that it can't be left for privacy reasons, but the man — Aziraphale  _ hopes _ it's a man — also admits his hope that they should meet again and thanks him for the amazing tattoo.

Knowing now that the secret admirer is a former client doesn't really help Aziraphale. He stares at the note possibly too long and with a broken heart he begs Tracy to throw the flowers out.

Just then the bell rings and there comes the gorgeous dark haired, golden eyed man with the snake tattoo. He expects him to greet him kindly, and start talking, but something seems to have shaken the man and he only silently asks for a pair of black wings on his buttocks. 

"I lost a bet," he says, as if it explains the loss of so much money for such an absurd tattoo.

"Such a tattoo is forever, dear boy," Aziraphale reminds him painfully, though he already prepares the needle and ink.

"It doesn't matter. Every tattoo is forever, this one isn't different." He adds something, too, but unluckily the tattoo artist doesn't hear it.

The session goes absurdly silently and Aziraphale often tries to start a conversation, but it fails, over and over. The man —  _ Crowley _ , he finally learns and promises himself to remember — pays him his due and disappears without another word.

It hurts more than expected. He tries to find any moment he might have said something to upset the man, if perhaps he has done him wrong, but he can't wrap his mind around it. With a heavy heart, he retires for the day, pays Tracy more than usual and asks her to cover him for his last session, a simple butterfly on a girl's wrist.

At home he pouts at the three notes left by his secret admirer, hoping they'll make him feel better, but they barely do. His mind keeps pulling him back to the expression of clear disappointment on Crowley's face, and to his own disappointment at being unable to talk to the man.

"Curse this!" he cries, tearing one of the notes, only to stop back and stare at his hands in horror.

Ashamedly, he mends the note back and goes to sleep, hoping the next day will bring him some joy.

He is awoken by the sound of a bell ringing loudly at his door and, yawning and stretching, he crawls to the door and opens it sleepily. Surprisingly, he finds nothing or no one on the other end. 

"Stupid kids," he mutters and rolls his eyes, bending his head down to clear his eyes, and when he opens them again he spots a ripped piece of a page of a book and gathers it before the wind can whisk it away.

Trembling as if it's made of explosives, he lays it on his couch and prepares himself hot cocoa to drink whilst reading it. Then, he flops down onto the couch and holds the piece of paper up.

_ '289: Foolifhe Fallen angel, look thee upon the wordf of the Flowerf, for they holde Truthef. Fallen, ye aren't Alone.' _

His eyes skim over the words several times before he finally understands. "Words of the flowers, of course!" He exclaims and runs to his room. "Fallen, I'm not alone, though. What could that mean?"

He decides to let is slide for the time being, choosing to instead finally look up the flower shop identified on the notes.

"Brilliant, lovely thing, the Internet!" he exclaims again when Google immediately finds it and before he can stop himself, he calls Tracy and promises her a raise, and begs her to cover him for his first appointment. 

"I'm not sure how long it'll take, dear," he admits sheepishly. "But I think I've found the secret admirer. Or I will."

He's very positive that once he goes to the flower shop and presents the notes he will be able to figure out who his admirer is. After all, the owner of the shop  _ must _ know who's buying the flowers, no?

He realizes the chances are not that high but he doesn't let it discourage him. 

Not even the too-long bus ride discourages him. In all fairness, he backs away only when his eyes finally land on the establishment and he finds himself surrounded with the outside plants — and his eyes water, a tingling feeling itching up his nostrils.

He holds the sneeze out of sheer pride, which, he chuckles, is also a reason to Fall an angel. They all had great understandings of the Bible, after all.

Aziraphale pushes the door fairly bravely, then a fit of sneezes hold him back and he locks the door again. "Oh,  _ fuck _ ," he curses, and tries to clear the tears streaming down his face.

Luckily, his fit seems to attract someone, for soon a woman joins him outside and asks him if needs any help. When he looks up, it's her. The bespectacled young woman with the Book.

"You!" they say simultaneously.

Then, he adds, "You left a piece of your Book under my doorstep for me to come here!"

The woman tilts her head to the side with raised eyebrows. "Technically, I sent my boyfriend Newt to leave the note, but yes. And you came!" she claps her hands and lays one on his back. "So, did you get it?"

He nods weakly. "Yes, I came here, my dear, no? It said to follow the flowers' notes, so I found this flower sh—sh—atchu!" 

The sneeze he'd been trying to hold erupts so loudly and so strongly he nearly topples over if it weren't for the young woman grabbing at his coat.

She widens her eyes. "You're allergic to flowers."

"Yes," he sneezes again, now much more peacefully, "I rather am."

Anathema narrows her eyes and looks towards the shop as it has something that may answer Aziraphale's prayers. "Is that why you threw out your violets yesterday?"

"Ye— why? How do you know?" his brows burrow and he looks at the woman expectantly.

"Well, I thought you'd know why I ask, given the prophecy my great grandma left." She notices.

"Ah," says Aziraphale ashamedly, "I'm afraid I didn't quite understand what other Fallen angel there could be."

She nods. "Follow me." Then, she seems to change her mind and stops him with her hand. "No, wait here!"

When she comes back, she's not alone. With her is a very annoyed and yet incredibly handsome Crowley, who, when his gaze lands upon Aziraphale, widens his eyes and growls at the young woman, trying to wriggle himself out of her tight grip.

"Hello," Aziraphale says kindly.

"Right, hi," Crowley mutters back grimly.

Anathema rolls her eyes. "Oh, you two! Mr. Fell, don't you remember him?"

_ Remember him?  _ He glances at the slim middle aged man and figures he'd know a man like him, from a mile. But then their eyes connect, those beautiful golden-like eyes shining in the morning sun and Aziraphale gasps.  _ Anthony, of course. _

A fellow _angel._ _He used to have his hair black back then, and longer,_ Aziraphale notices, but now that he looks at him, despite the more advanced age and the red hair, and the shortness of said hair, the tattoo artist can see him.

_ He Fell before me, caught in bed with a chubby young man.  _

"Oh," he says smartly, then sneezes.

Anathema uses that sneeze as a demonstration for Crowley, for she turns to him and rolls her eyes. "He's allergic to flowers. He threw yours out because they were giving him an allergic reaction."

Then she swiftly goes back into the shop and leaves the two alone, both of them staring at each other in understanding, and awe, and the such. 

Crowley is the first one to shake out of their daze. "Let me invite you to a cup of tea in this coffee shop around the corner." Upon Aziraphale's confused look, he reassures him, "There's no flowers there!"

"Well, dear boy," the tattoo artist glances at him quickly then averts his gaze, flushing all over his face, "I think I'll accept the invitation, yes, rather."

Crowley beams at him and boldly holds out his hand, which Aziraphale grabs with a soft smile.

Their walk to the coffee shop is filled with reminiscences of their time as  _ angels _ and then they talk about books and flowers, and tattoos while drinking their teas. 

After an hour, Aziraphale admits with a blush that he must be off, but before he can walk away Crowley leaves him a note, this time containing his number and Aziraphale lets their hands intertwine for much longer than he is wont to.

And when he looks at Crowley's cheeky grin and imagines their next meeting —  _ date —  _ he is proud to admit that, once again, a book has brought him nothing but goodness.


End file.
